So it has been a little while since I have written with the purpose of keeping you lot up to date with the planning. So forgive me this week as there will be little wistful musings on the nature of touring, no tales of thief-bashing glory, nor any debate on prominent cycling bad habits.
No, this week it is all about progress.
The reason I have descended into more general musings in the last couple of months is probably down to a lack of this key ingredient. The onset of training, distractions of jobs, life, friends, girlfriend, coupled with the sheer amount of time between now and the trip had reduced my planning to a background hum. It was something which cropped up during a quiet moment at work or during a particularly nice ride. But recent events have shaken this up a little.
First up, my hours were cut at work (ensure you read the comments in that link). I am down to a contract of 15 hours per week, £4500 per year. So other than the mild inconvenience of now trying to find work in an over-saturated-with-people-like-me market (thanks global economic fudging!) this means I no longer have the guaranteed means to buy all my kit for myself too. Quite cleverly though, I have organised to have my birthday about a week before I head off for Land's End. This has forced my hand on organising my kit as a birthday list now needs to be drawn up. Thank you in advance to my poor, soon to be poorer family and friends for getting me some terrifically boring/wonderfully fascinating (depending on your temperament) bits of bike equipment. Really, you shouldn't soon to have!
Secondly, my phone contract comes up for renewal soon and I am debating a move in to the world of high tech smartphones. One of the most daunting things of the whole journey for me is the navigation. Maps themselves are fine. I can read them well and have grown to love my laminated ones in my room more than I should. But reading them while riding and then remembering routes etc has me baffled. On the Coast to Coast last year I had to ask directions more times than I'd care to admit. So a new contract may mean a new smartphone with navigation software. Throw in a solar powered charger, a mount for my handlebars and I'll be tweet-face-mapping my way through the country. Saying that, asking for directions last time did have me meeting some pretty lovely people. Maybe that is a joy of the trip I shouldn't deny myself of? I remain undecided for now.
Finally, my dad stuck his oar in recently and Aimee pulled hers out (stop it). I shan't go in to details, that would be for Aimee to do if she wished but she regretfully decided to not join me on the trip. This was sad news for me as I was really looking forward to sharing this journey with her but I respect her reasons for not coming. Besides, she will still be there at the finish line. It will be our two year anniversary after all...
My dad on the other hand sent a message a month or so ago saying he was thinking of jollying off up the highlands at the same time I'll be sweatily puffing through the lowlands. Some too-ing and fro-ing over facebook and a plan was hatched. I will now be linking up with him in a few places throughout Scotland during that leg of the trip. There will even be a night in Llangollen a week earlier where he plans on buying me tea. Honestly, he is brilliant my ol' Dad.
This did all mean though I had to rushedly plan out the Scottish leg quicker than I thought I would have to. I had to let him know where and when I'd be each day so he could book accommodation accordingly. So, not content with buying my tea and unwittingly becoming a force of route planning motivation, he has even secured one or two campsites in the gardens of the places he will be staying. Honestly, brilliant!
So there you go, the gear list has been drawn up, the route itinerary is 95% done and a lack of girlfriend has been offset with a presence of dad.
Progress.
P.s. All together now, "Youuu teeek the heeeigh laaands, an I'll teeek thar looowww!"
P.p.s. To my family: Please don’t take the paragraph about presents as me being presumptuous or unappreciative. Any help with any stuff will have you in my eternal good books. You are all fantastic!
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Thursday, 8 April 2010
In the Groove
It’s been a funny old week or so.
As per my training schedule I extended my commute to cover more miles. I hit a milestone of sorts with last week’s route. I now start my commute heading in exactly the wrong direction for work. It feels a little funny but it takes me through parts of Manchester I was previously unfamiliar with. One of the great joys of my training is forever getting to know my home city more and more.
The joy has been adequately counterbalanced however, by the sworn enemy of all cyclists everywhere. That bloody wind.
Spring has kicked up the airflow and I am finding myself frequently riding head on, in to the wind. And when I’m not thrashing and gulping my way in to it I’m having to lean the bike over trying to avoid being taken off sideways by it.
Have you ever been in a rush on a Saturday, trying to fight through the throng of idle shoppers who seem to be precisely and obtusely in your way? You know that frustrated, tense feeling that rises in your chest that makes you want to thrash and scream? Now imagine every single one of those shoppers gives you a firm shove in the shoulders as you rush by. And they are all Mike Tyson so you can’t even complain without fear of an instant de-lobing. That is what riding through wind feels like. There’s nothing you can do but shrink down and power through. I really hate that bloody wind.
Now and then though, the wind will courteously apologise. It gets behind you and pushes you along at physics defying speeds. It truly feels like flying. I am convinced that if I could spread my arms for just a second I'd be up with the sparrows. Every cloud and all that...
Maybe it was the wind, maybe it was the increased distance, and just maybe it was my determination to keep up a relatively high mph, but last Thursday my Achilles tendon piped up. It was grumbling through the afternoon but later as I lay in bed trying to sleep, I felt a burning ache stretch from my heel to the bottom of my calf. I became an instant juxtaposition of worry and pragmatism. With David Beckham’s tendon snapping antics in the news recently I was immediately paranoid and feared the worst. Yet when threatened with hardship I tend to develop an unusual sense of calm in my actions. So the next morning I dug out my ankle support, and quickly decided to keep riding just at a much slower pace and abandoning my training mileage. Gentle non load bearing exercise is good for recovering tendons. It keeps them supple and encourages the blood flow.
In short, after adopting a rather jaunty limp, I got on with it.
Hey presto, after a few days the pain has gone and I’m already back on the training routes. Thank goodness!
The injury has however forced me to slow things down a little. I think previously on my training I was bolting around the city as quick as possible, trying desperately to hold my own amongst the big-ringing, lycra clad speed freaks. But since my brush with injury I have slowed things down, settling for lower gears, letting the sporty types sail past. As I have said before, bicycle touring is an exercise in pressure and time. Until now I think I have been putting too much pressure into too little time, blasting through my training. But my routes are getting longer and powering through them is no longer practical.
I find myself settling back in the saddle, taking in my surroundings more.
I can feel myself getting in to the groove of touring.
As per my training schedule I extended my commute to cover more miles. I hit a milestone of sorts with last week’s route. I now start my commute heading in exactly the wrong direction for work. It feels a little funny but it takes me through parts of Manchester I was previously unfamiliar with. One of the great joys of my training is forever getting to know my home city more and more.
The joy has been adequately counterbalanced however, by the sworn enemy of all cyclists everywhere. That bloody wind.
Spring has kicked up the airflow and I am finding myself frequently riding head on, in to the wind. And when I’m not thrashing and gulping my way in to it I’m having to lean the bike over trying to avoid being taken off sideways by it.
Have you ever been in a rush on a Saturday, trying to fight through the throng of idle shoppers who seem to be precisely and obtusely in your way? You know that frustrated, tense feeling that rises in your chest that makes you want to thrash and scream? Now imagine every single one of those shoppers gives you a firm shove in the shoulders as you rush by. And they are all Mike Tyson so you can’t even complain without fear of an instant de-lobing. That is what riding through wind feels like. There’s nothing you can do but shrink down and power through. I really hate that bloody wind.
Now and then though, the wind will courteously apologise. It gets behind you and pushes you along at physics defying speeds. It truly feels like flying. I am convinced that if I could spread my arms for just a second I'd be up with the sparrows. Every cloud and all that...
Maybe it was the wind, maybe it was the increased distance, and just maybe it was my determination to keep up a relatively high mph, but last Thursday my Achilles tendon piped up. It was grumbling through the afternoon but later as I lay in bed trying to sleep, I felt a burning ache stretch from my heel to the bottom of my calf. I became an instant juxtaposition of worry and pragmatism. With David Beckham’s tendon snapping antics in the news recently I was immediately paranoid and feared the worst. Yet when threatened with hardship I tend to develop an unusual sense of calm in my actions. So the next morning I dug out my ankle support, and quickly decided to keep riding just at a much slower pace and abandoning my training mileage. Gentle non load bearing exercise is good for recovering tendons. It keeps them supple and encourages the blood flow.
In short, after adopting a rather jaunty limp, I got on with it.
Hey presto, after a few days the pain has gone and I’m already back on the training routes. Thank goodness!
The injury has however forced me to slow things down a little. I think previously on my training I was bolting around the city as quick as possible, trying desperately to hold my own amongst the big-ringing, lycra clad speed freaks. But since my brush with injury I have slowed things down, settling for lower gears, letting the sporty types sail past. As I have said before, bicycle touring is an exercise in pressure and time. Until now I think I have been putting too much pressure into too little time, blasting through my training. But my routes are getting longer and powering through them is no longer practical.
I find myself settling back in the saddle, taking in my surroundings more.
I can feel myself getting in to the groove of touring.
Saturday, 27 March 2010
Obsession.... by Cycling Kind.
This cycling thing can rapidly become an obsession.
Not content to have bedroom walls adorned with maps of England, spending increasing amounts of time racking up the miles on my commute, I am now debating a move into cycling as a career.
Before you panic, I won't be painting myself with lycra and mounting one of those sleek-as-fish, high gear single speeds you see Chris Hoy knocking about on. I am talking about becoming a bicycle messenger.
The job in its purest form entails picking up packages, mostly from corporate clients, then racing across town to deliver the packages to other corporate clients. The pay is based on the amount of jobs done, cash in hand at the end of the week, and taxes being your own responsibility. Effectively you are a self employed bike racer/delivery boy, but with a boss to manage your day. It is for me and for now at least, quite appealing.
If you follow the link there you will find out that as a job it is not too well paid. Nor does it come off as particularly safe. Many people have had to take time out due to injury, sometimes sport related, sometimes due to road accidents. Some few have even died thanks to collisions.
So I have this love-hate relationship with the idea. The lifestyle appeals, the risks make me nervous. But then I ride the streets of Manchester every day. I am surely open to the same risks already?
Not so. I see couriers around Manchester. They are easy to spot. They ride single speeds, wear pretty casual clothes and ride faster than the wind. They also run red lights. This is something that I principally will not do with one or two exceptions where I deem it absolutely risk free (tram crossings where there are no trams!). But 99% of the time I wait at reds. Running them is both illegal and dangerous. Within the cycling community the jury is out. To run or not to run, that is the question! But the money-per-job pay lends itself to stopping as little as possible. Not to mention racing between the lights can be tiring. Pros and cons, pros and cons. Ho hum.
To apply all this to cycle touring I have found that half the battle is in my own head. My body may be physically and technically able to do a task, but the decision to do it or not is what can make me come unstuck. When I did the Coast to Coast last summer, it was one decision which got me over a mountain rather than take a train home.
But then I have also discovered on my jaunts that an idea about what lies on the road ahead is very rarely accurate. There is only so much preparation one can do. At some point you have to accept that moving forwards is simply a leap of faith. So maybe I should just apply and see what happens. After all every time I have chosen a road to ride, I always end up somewhere fantastic.
It is strange how cycling and the lessons learned are increasingly shaping my view on the world. Parallels can be drawn, metaphors can be made. Thus the obsession continues...
Note: It was alarmingly hard to find an article in favour of stopping at red lights. Despite the opinions of several cycling magazines being shared by myself, public opinion on the net seems to be increasingly in favour of running red lights. Food for thought.
Not content to have bedroom walls adorned with maps of England, spending increasing amounts of time racking up the miles on my commute, I am now debating a move into cycling as a career.
Before you panic, I won't be painting myself with lycra and mounting one of those sleek-as-fish, high gear single speeds you see Chris Hoy knocking about on. I am talking about becoming a bicycle messenger.
The job in its purest form entails picking up packages, mostly from corporate clients, then racing across town to deliver the packages to other corporate clients. The pay is based on the amount of jobs done, cash in hand at the end of the week, and taxes being your own responsibility. Effectively you are a self employed bike racer/delivery boy, but with a boss to manage your day. It is for me and for now at least, quite appealing.
If you follow the link there you will find out that as a job it is not too well paid. Nor does it come off as particularly safe. Many people have had to take time out due to injury, sometimes sport related, sometimes due to road accidents. Some few have even died thanks to collisions.
So I have this love-hate relationship with the idea. The lifestyle appeals, the risks make me nervous. But then I ride the streets of Manchester every day. I am surely open to the same risks already?
Not so. I see couriers around Manchester. They are easy to spot. They ride single speeds, wear pretty casual clothes and ride faster than the wind. They also run red lights. This is something that I principally will not do with one or two exceptions where I deem it absolutely risk free (tram crossings where there are no trams!). But 99% of the time I wait at reds. Running them is both illegal and dangerous. Within the cycling community the jury is out. To run or not to run, that is the question! But the money-per-job pay lends itself to stopping as little as possible. Not to mention racing between the lights can be tiring. Pros and cons, pros and cons. Ho hum.
To apply all this to cycle touring I have found that half the battle is in my own head. My body may be physically and technically able to do a task, but the decision to do it or not is what can make me come unstuck. When I did the Coast to Coast last summer, it was one decision which got me over a mountain rather than take a train home.
But then I have also discovered on my jaunts that an idea about what lies on the road ahead is very rarely accurate. There is only so much preparation one can do. At some point you have to accept that moving forwards is simply a leap of faith. So maybe I should just apply and see what happens. After all every time I have chosen a road to ride, I always end up somewhere fantastic.
It is strange how cycling and the lessons learned are increasingly shaping my view on the world. Parallels can be drawn, metaphors can be made. Thus the obsession continues...
Note: It was alarmingly hard to find an article in favour of stopping at red lights. Despite the opinions of several cycling magazines being shared by myself, public opinion on the net seems to be increasingly in favour of running red lights. Food for thought.
Monday, 15 March 2010
The (almost) Bicycle Thief
This is the story of me catching a bike thief on Saturday. I have “storified” it a little for my enjoyment and hopefully yours too. I hope you enjoy reading it:
I was out shopping in Manchester. I had ridden my bike as I usually do, chaining it up in Exchange Square. For those of you who do not know Manchester, this is the equivalent of chaining it up in New York’s Times Square. It is a bustling crossroads, between the Arndale centre, The Triangle, Selfridges and the bars of The Printworks. I always leave my bike here as it is the busiest part of town. More eyes are on it, making it harder for anyone to take it.
I left the bike and disappeared into the Arndale for a while. Later on I headed over to the Triangle to get a ginger beer from the Fair Trade Cafe. Approaching the spot where my bike was I saw a man mounting up. He was dangling a carrier bag of the handle bars, wasn’t wearing a helmet and was wearing a big bulky black coat. He was obviously not a keen rider. Still I glanced down at his wheels, hoping as I always do to spot a beauty amongst the pack of workhorses that Manchester cyclists use.
Time stopped. My brain clicked in to overdrive.
It was as if a computer took over my thoughts for a split second in order to calmly and efficiently run a diagnostics check. My eyes scanned the bike from saddle to wheel, noting every little detail on the way. It was a beauty of a bike. It was mine.
I shot like a bullet from a gun down the road in pursuit. I caught up with the man easily and for a moment we were parallel. I gave him a gentle push in the side. Somehow I’d timed it perfectly, as when he went down, he collided with a loose bin that broke his fall, before rolling in to the road in front of me. He was inches from either a lamppost or the concrete pavement. For one heart stopping moment he was still. The thought that I may have badly hurt him flashed through my mind. Mercifully after a few seconds he picked himself up, clutching his plastic bag to his side. He was dazed and murmured a protest.
I stabbed him in the chest with the tip of my forefinger. I told him, forcefully,
“That is my bike.”
I heard some kids mock my voice, twisting my words. That’s meeeh beehk. I didn’t care. I kept my eyes locked on to his. His face was awash with confusion, eyes scanning me, my face, everything for a clue. He didn’t find one. His mind settled on a thin desperate lie. Finally he cracked his lips and with a thick mancunian drawl he protested,
“Nah it’s not, I just bought this off a bloke off the street.”
I exploded. “NO YOU DIDN’T! THAT IS MY BIKE AND YOU KNOW IT!”
My spittle rained down on him and the street fell silent. All eyes were on us. I gained an unexpected measure of control. My voice rose and fell, punctuating the words that contradicted him, the words I wanted him to remember later on, “You DID NOT buy this bike, YOU STOLE it. This is MY bike and you KNOW this.”
In hindsight, I truly believe my limited theatrical training came to the fore here. I projected perfectly, my intonation was spot on. At the crucial moment when all eyes of Exchange square turned towards me, I performed. And I made sure that every single one of them was convinced that I was The Righteous, and he was The Thief.
A well kept man around my age stepped forwards. The Peacemaker, Benvolio. He touched my arm and spoke calmly,
“Hang on mate, someone is on their way and we’re gonna sort this out yeah?”
I liked his idea very much as evidence was on my side. My helmet was in my hand, the keys for the now broken bike lock were in my pocket, along with the clip on lights that only fit the mountings on my bike. I even had pictures of the bike on my phone and I knew instantly that I could prove to the police or anyone without a measure of a doubt that the bike belonged to me.
As I spoke I bore my gaze down on The Thief once more,
“Ok, yes. Let’s wait for the police and have a chat about whose bike this is.” Now both he and the crowd knew it too.
The Thief dropped his eyes, and by wordlessly turning to leave he admitted his guilt. The Thief limped away into the crowd. Nobody stopped him.
As the adrenalin wore away my hands began to tremble, but I was buoyed by the heroes welcome I received. People from the crowd began to cheer encouragement, “nice one mate!” “You did the right thing!” As I picked my bike up checking it over for damage, a middle aged couple walked over. They asked if I was ok, noticing my shaking hands and congratulated me for standing up to The Thief. The explained they had just come from a church service where they had discussed the prevalence of petty crime in today’s society, and said it was warming to see myself not fall victim to it. They joined me as I retrieved my bike locks, both of them neatly cut apart. No small feat as one is an industrial strength steel chain. It dawned on me that The Thief must have had his cutting tools in his plastic bag. No wonder they were the first thing he reached for after coming to.
My bike was mostly unscathed. The chain had come free and the rear break knocked out of line but it was nothing a good service wouldn’t fix. Even so, after letting my nerves steady I mounted up and took it to a bike shop for a check up. On the way I reflected on the incident. I had always had myself down as a bit of a coward. I never let myself get in to physical confrontations, the only time being in high school. So it took me as a complete surprise that I would so readily confront The Thief. He was after all much bigger than me. But then I have never had my morality tested in such a confrontational way before. It is nice to know that everything is in the right place. I came away from the incident with my bike security ideas dented, but with my pride wonderfully intact.
There is a Latin phrase; Deus ex Machina. Literally translated it means “god from the machine.” If my bike is the machine, I am its god. And I will strike down with furious vengeance on anyone who tries to take it from me. Apparently.
I was out shopping in Manchester. I had ridden my bike as I usually do, chaining it up in Exchange Square. For those of you who do not know Manchester, this is the equivalent of chaining it up in New York’s Times Square. It is a bustling crossroads, between the Arndale centre, The Triangle, Selfridges and the bars of The Printworks. I always leave my bike here as it is the busiest part of town. More eyes are on it, making it harder for anyone to take it.
I left the bike and disappeared into the Arndale for a while. Later on I headed over to the Triangle to get a ginger beer from the Fair Trade Cafe. Approaching the spot where my bike was I saw a man mounting up. He was dangling a carrier bag of the handle bars, wasn’t wearing a helmet and was wearing a big bulky black coat. He was obviously not a keen rider. Still I glanced down at his wheels, hoping as I always do to spot a beauty amongst the pack of workhorses that Manchester cyclists use.
Time stopped. My brain clicked in to overdrive.
It was as if a computer took over my thoughts for a split second in order to calmly and efficiently run a diagnostics check. My eyes scanned the bike from saddle to wheel, noting every little detail on the way. It was a beauty of a bike. It was mine.
I shot like a bullet from a gun down the road in pursuit. I caught up with the man easily and for a moment we were parallel. I gave him a gentle push in the side. Somehow I’d timed it perfectly, as when he went down, he collided with a loose bin that broke his fall, before rolling in to the road in front of me. He was inches from either a lamppost or the concrete pavement. For one heart stopping moment he was still. The thought that I may have badly hurt him flashed through my mind. Mercifully after a few seconds he picked himself up, clutching his plastic bag to his side. He was dazed and murmured a protest.
I stabbed him in the chest with the tip of my forefinger. I told him, forcefully,
“That is my bike.”
I heard some kids mock my voice, twisting my words. That’s meeeh beehk. I didn’t care. I kept my eyes locked on to his. His face was awash with confusion, eyes scanning me, my face, everything for a clue. He didn’t find one. His mind settled on a thin desperate lie. Finally he cracked his lips and with a thick mancunian drawl he protested,
“Nah it’s not, I just bought this off a bloke off the street.”
I exploded. “NO YOU DIDN’T! THAT IS MY BIKE AND YOU KNOW IT!”
My spittle rained down on him and the street fell silent. All eyes were on us. I gained an unexpected measure of control. My voice rose and fell, punctuating the words that contradicted him, the words I wanted him to remember later on, “You DID NOT buy this bike, YOU STOLE it. This is MY bike and you KNOW this.”
In hindsight, I truly believe my limited theatrical training came to the fore here. I projected perfectly, my intonation was spot on. At the crucial moment when all eyes of Exchange square turned towards me, I performed. And I made sure that every single one of them was convinced that I was The Righteous, and he was The Thief.
A well kept man around my age stepped forwards. The Peacemaker, Benvolio. He touched my arm and spoke calmly,
“Hang on mate, someone is on their way and we’re gonna sort this out yeah?”
I liked his idea very much as evidence was on my side. My helmet was in my hand, the keys for the now broken bike lock were in my pocket, along with the clip on lights that only fit the mountings on my bike. I even had pictures of the bike on my phone and I knew instantly that I could prove to the police or anyone without a measure of a doubt that the bike belonged to me.
As I spoke I bore my gaze down on The Thief once more,
“Ok, yes. Let’s wait for the police and have a chat about whose bike this is.” Now both he and the crowd knew it too.
The Thief dropped his eyes, and by wordlessly turning to leave he admitted his guilt. The Thief limped away into the crowd. Nobody stopped him.
As the adrenalin wore away my hands began to tremble, but I was buoyed by the heroes welcome I received. People from the crowd began to cheer encouragement, “nice one mate!” “You did the right thing!” As I picked my bike up checking it over for damage, a middle aged couple walked over. They asked if I was ok, noticing my shaking hands and congratulated me for standing up to The Thief. The explained they had just come from a church service where they had discussed the prevalence of petty crime in today’s society, and said it was warming to see myself not fall victim to it. They joined me as I retrieved my bike locks, both of them neatly cut apart. No small feat as one is an industrial strength steel chain. It dawned on me that The Thief must have had his cutting tools in his plastic bag. No wonder they were the first thing he reached for after coming to.
My bike was mostly unscathed. The chain had come free and the rear break knocked out of line but it was nothing a good service wouldn’t fix. Even so, after letting my nerves steady I mounted up and took it to a bike shop for a check up. On the way I reflected on the incident. I had always had myself down as a bit of a coward. I never let myself get in to physical confrontations, the only time being in high school. So it took me as a complete surprise that I would so readily confront The Thief. He was after all much bigger than me. But then I have never had my morality tested in such a confrontational way before. It is nice to know that everything is in the right place. I came away from the incident with my bike security ideas dented, but with my pride wonderfully intact.
There is a Latin phrase; Deus ex Machina. Literally translated it means “god from the machine.” If my bike is the machine, I am its god. And I will strike down with furious vengeance on anyone who tries to take it from me. Apparently.
Saturday, 6 March 2010
Seasons and Numbers
Thank God that is over. February melted away under the relentless passage of time, giving way to the crisp, sunny days of March.
What a change it was. The month turned and it was almost as if the sun, numbed by the cold of February into complacency perked up and realised “Oh yes, I have a job to do!” On March 1st I opened my blinds in the morning and the streets of Manchester were bathed in light. Suddenly cycling has become much more enjoyable for me. I look forward to being back on the bike in the morning.
I believe I truly am solar powered.
It is funny how cycling has put me intimately in touch with the seasons. In years previously I have been able to bypass winter completely, by stepping from a warm house in to an air conditioned bus to go to heated buildings where I work, eat, and play, before getting back again to my toasty house. By cycling to work every day I’ve felt the seasons strongly. I even stayed on the bike through Frozen Britain bar the worst few days. Despite obvious moments of discomfort it has been nought but a good thing. Humans are animals and I think we belong outside to an extent. Staying out through the seasons is just good for the soul.
Anywhoo, training is now in progress. I cycle on average 6 miles a day making 30 miles a week. Applying my dad’s marathon beating formula of adding 10% a week, my weekly plan is as follows:
Week 1 – 33m (this week just gone)
Week 2 – 36m
Week 3 – 40m
Week 4 – 44m
Week 5 – 48m
Week 6 – 53m
...and so on, until we get to...
Week 17 – 151m
Week 18 – 166m
Week 19 – 183m
Week 20 – 201m
Week 21 – 221m
Week 22 – 100m
Week 23 will be the first week of the trip where I’ll be cycling a nut crushing minimum of 60 miles a day.
I’m attacking this schedule by increasing my commute for now. By taking long meanders around Manchester on my way to work, the training doesn’t feel like training. It’s merely a different way to work. If I keep this up though, week 21 will mean setting off for work two hours ahead of time and riding 22 miles there and back, somehow finding the energy for a days work in between.
Crikey.
After doing the research I think many would say this is over-training. My dad says it is a bare minimum. I find it difficult to judge having never done a trip so long, but I would rather over-train than under so stick to the plan I shall. The final week of only (only?!) doing 100 miles is something many people recommend, partly to rest a little, and partly to spend more time with the friends and family who won’t be coming with me.
Saying that I have applied for a job with the Red Cross recently which if I am blessed enough to get, I will only be working fourteen hours a week allowing more time for everything.
Fingers crossed that I can achieve both job and training eh?
What a change it was. The month turned and it was almost as if the sun, numbed by the cold of February into complacency perked up and realised “Oh yes, I have a job to do!” On March 1st I opened my blinds in the morning and the streets of Manchester were bathed in light. Suddenly cycling has become much more enjoyable for me. I look forward to being back on the bike in the morning.
I believe I truly am solar powered.
It is funny how cycling has put me intimately in touch with the seasons. In years previously I have been able to bypass winter completely, by stepping from a warm house in to an air conditioned bus to go to heated buildings where I work, eat, and play, before getting back again to my toasty house. By cycling to work every day I’ve felt the seasons strongly. I even stayed on the bike through Frozen Britain bar the worst few days. Despite obvious moments of discomfort it has been nought but a good thing. Humans are animals and I think we belong outside to an extent. Staying out through the seasons is just good for the soul.
Anywhoo, training is now in progress. I cycle on average 6 miles a day making 30 miles a week. Applying my dad’s marathon beating formula of adding 10% a week, my weekly plan is as follows:
Week 1 – 33m (this week just gone)
Week 2 – 36m
Week 3 – 40m
Week 4 – 44m
Week 5 – 48m
Week 6 – 53m
...and so on, until we get to...
Week 17 – 151m
Week 18 – 166m
Week 19 – 183m
Week 20 – 201m
Week 21 – 221m
Week 22 – 100m
Week 23 will be the first week of the trip where I’ll be cycling a nut crushing minimum of 60 miles a day.
I’m attacking this schedule by increasing my commute for now. By taking long meanders around Manchester on my way to work, the training doesn’t feel like training. It’s merely a different way to work. If I keep this up though, week 21 will mean setting off for work two hours ahead of time and riding 22 miles there and back, somehow finding the energy for a days work in between.
Crikey.
After doing the research I think many would say this is over-training. My dad says it is a bare minimum. I find it difficult to judge having never done a trip so long, but I would rather over-train than under so stick to the plan I shall. The final week of only (only?!) doing 100 miles is something many people recommend, partly to rest a little, and partly to spend more time with the friends and family who won’t be coming with me.
Saying that I have applied for a job with the Red Cross recently which if I am blessed enough to get, I will only be working fourteen hours a week allowing more time for everything.
Fingers crossed that I can achieve both job and training eh?
Sunday, 21 February 2010
Pressure and Time...
As I flex my newly thawed fingers across my keyboard, my bottom has limitless exuberance in the plush office chair it now inhabits. Memories of a skinny saddle fade away. The toes rejoice too, rescued from frozen socks and soggy shoes they curl and stretch in the warmth of my room along with my thighs. Like cats by the fire, they are intrinsically at peace now. A rigid back lets go the tension of the day, thrumming in arch-supported pleasure. And my poor, ice kissed nose has finally stopped weeping all down my shirt. Its rest, along with all other parts of my body is well deserved.
My brain however can sod off.
Thanks to it my body suffered more than it should today. Setting off for the previously promised big bike ride, I was to be meandering through south Manchester and over to the peaks of Derbyshire where my dad lives. One lovely lunch later, another quick trundle down the hills and I was to be home for supper. Thirty-five miles of joy.
My thighs gave up after twelve or so miles. I was doing well on the flat, keeping my usual 17-18 mph speed, but as soon as any hills loomed large in front of me, they cowered like a collared puppy. There is a key design flaw in all bikes too. If one hits a puddle at speed, the spray is channeled directly at the feet. With today’s icy cold, snow-thawed puddles, I ground to a sodden and miserably cold halt in Marple. Putting down my left foot to steady myself, I had the sickening sensation of not knowing where my toes were. My foot was as numb as an Eskimo’s willy.
A quick phone call and my wonderful father and step-mother agreed to meet me nearby at my Stepsister’s house. Equally as wonderful, she plied me with hot chocolate and dry socks until my dad arrived, his ever present smile in contrast with my frustration and embarrassment of being so fussed over after falling so short of my goal. Still, we went for lunch (he paid. Seriously, wonderful!) and a walk around my old childhood haunt, Etherow Park set me to rights.
Warming up at home now I am forced to concede that the Blue Eyed Monster that is February (that is, my brain) had me bite of more than I could chew today. My seventeen mile jaunt with Aimee the other week should have been no yard stick to measure today by. Back then it was warmer, we were cycling slower and over less challenging terrain. That and we stopped halfway for a cooked breakfast.
In my desperation to fight this Monster, I wanted to achieve big today to give February something to smile over but instead set a rather unrealistic goal in unreasonable conditions.
Ho hum, you live and learn. And I will take a few lessons from today:
#1 Always eat well. I made the classic mistake of letting myself get hungry on the bike. It’s akin to setting off down the motorway with your petrol gauge in the red.
#2 Don’t be impatient. Bicycle touring is a balance between pressure and time. A little pressure over a long time will yield fantastic results. A lot of pressure in a small amount of time is ruinous.
#3. Bring spare socks.
My brain however can sod off.
Thanks to it my body suffered more than it should today. Setting off for the previously promised big bike ride, I was to be meandering through south Manchester and over to the peaks of Derbyshire where my dad lives. One lovely lunch later, another quick trundle down the hills and I was to be home for supper. Thirty-five miles of joy.
My thighs gave up after twelve or so miles. I was doing well on the flat, keeping my usual 17-18 mph speed, but as soon as any hills loomed large in front of me, they cowered like a collared puppy. There is a key design flaw in all bikes too. If one hits a puddle at speed, the spray is channeled directly at the feet. With today’s icy cold, snow-thawed puddles, I ground to a sodden and miserably cold halt in Marple. Putting down my left foot to steady myself, I had the sickening sensation of not knowing where my toes were. My foot was as numb as an Eskimo’s willy.
A quick phone call and my wonderful father and step-mother agreed to meet me nearby at my Stepsister’s house. Equally as wonderful, she plied me with hot chocolate and dry socks until my dad arrived, his ever present smile in contrast with my frustration and embarrassment of being so fussed over after falling so short of my goal. Still, we went for lunch (he paid. Seriously, wonderful!) and a walk around my old childhood haunt, Etherow Park set me to rights.
Warming up at home now I am forced to concede that the Blue Eyed Monster that is February (that is, my brain) had me bite of more than I could chew today. My seventeen mile jaunt with Aimee the other week should have been no yard stick to measure today by. Back then it was warmer, we were cycling slower and over less challenging terrain. That and we stopped halfway for a cooked breakfast.
In my desperation to fight this Monster, I wanted to achieve big today to give February something to smile over but instead set a rather unrealistic goal in unreasonable conditions.
Ho hum, you live and learn. And I will take a few lessons from today:
#1 Always eat well. I made the classic mistake of letting myself get hungry on the bike. It’s akin to setting off down the motorway with your petrol gauge in the red.
#2 Don’t be impatient. Bicycle touring is a balance between pressure and time. A little pressure over a long time will yield fantastic results. A lot of pressure in a small amount of time is ruinous.
#3. Bring spare socks.
Saturday, 13 February 2010
February is a blue eyed monster...
I haven't posted in the last few weeks. It is no coincidence that these few weeks happen to all have something to do with February.
I hate February. All of it makes me lethargic, lazy. It is a relatively useless month that seems to exist as a buffer between January and the onset of spring. Imagine going straight from one to the next. Bliss. Valentines Day adds present purchasing pressure for the attached and solitary sulking for the single. The only redeeming feature is Pancake Day. And I have pancakes on other days so it's not that special anymore.
For cycling, February has its perils too. The cold, wind, and snow are stacked against you. Especially if you're still working off some holiday podge. As I commute on the bike, I tend to get to and from work slower, more ruddy-nosed, and with an unstoppable torrent of snot slicking the front of my jacket. Not to mention suffering from finger-devouring frostbite. I'm not kidding. I've lost so many I'm now in finger deficit.
Like I said, hate February.
Right now the idea of Land's End seems quite remote. The route planning has ground to a halt. I tell myself it is because Aimee needs to be in on it too and we're rarely together. But my planning method welcomes mistakes. I don't have much of an excuse. (Check out earlier posts for the laminated map method!)
Any further training is tough to work up to. I have a week off and a perfect opportunity for some long rides. But like a fool, I keep checking the Met Office website and convincing myself that such-a-day would be too cold, too wet etc etc.
Excuses excuses. Lethargic and lazy.
I learned something about myself on the Coast to Coast last year though. If it's hard, I can power through. The rewards are beautifully worth it. So despite the blue eyed monster named February dangling from my shoulders, I'll set off for a thirty mile jaunt around the hills this week. I may lose all my limbs to frostbite, and slick the asphalt with my nasal fluids, but this month is hard for me. So I'll power through.
By the time I get to John O' Groats, the results might just be worth it.
I hate February. All of it makes me lethargic, lazy. It is a relatively useless month that seems to exist as a buffer between January and the onset of spring. Imagine going straight from one to the next. Bliss. Valentines Day adds present purchasing pressure for the attached and solitary sulking for the single. The only redeeming feature is Pancake Day. And I have pancakes on other days so it's not that special anymore.
For cycling, February has its perils too. The cold, wind, and snow are stacked against you. Especially if you're still working off some holiday podge. As I commute on the bike, I tend to get to and from work slower, more ruddy-nosed, and with an unstoppable torrent of snot slicking the front of my jacket. Not to mention suffering from finger-devouring frostbite. I'm not kidding. I've lost so many I'm now in finger deficit.
Like I said, hate February.
Right now the idea of Land's End seems quite remote. The route planning has ground to a halt. I tell myself it is because Aimee needs to be in on it too and we're rarely together. But my planning method welcomes mistakes. I don't have much of an excuse. (Check out earlier posts for the laminated map method!)
Any further training is tough to work up to. I have a week off and a perfect opportunity for some long rides. But like a fool, I keep checking the Met Office website and convincing myself that such-a-day would be too cold, too wet etc etc.
Excuses excuses. Lethargic and lazy.
I learned something about myself on the Coast to Coast last year though. If it's hard, I can power through. The rewards are beautifully worth it. So despite the blue eyed monster named February dangling from my shoulders, I'll set off for a thirty mile jaunt around the hills this week. I may lose all my limbs to frostbite, and slick the asphalt with my nasal fluids, but this month is hard for me. So I'll power through.
By the time I get to John O' Groats, the results might just be worth it.
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